


Leave Me Your Stardust to Remember You By

by inthemorning



Series: Songs on Shuffle: A Writing Exercise [4]
Category: Danisnotonfire - Fandom, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Reader-Insert, probs a lil ooc, sorry about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthemorning/pseuds/inthemorning
Summary: Things can't always work out for the best.





	Leave Me Your Stardust to Remember You By

**Author's Note:**

> As a writing exercise, I am starting to force myself to play a song on shuffle and write, getting some sort of inspiration from it. These are all probably gonna be short. Let's see how long this lasts. // This one is based off of Boats and Birds by Gregory and the Hawk. Listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6o8Sji6E9Q).

          There is a tightness in my chest whenever I looked at her. It’s always been there and I’ve got a feeling it won’t go away unless she does.

          But that’s okay. The shortness of breath only felt natural when she was around. It’s been tighter lately; worse. Combined with  _ that _ feeling in my stomach, things started to feel uncomfortable. Maybe because things outside of me were starting to feel uncomfortable. Dinners were silent and nights were colder and she can’t hold my gaze anymore.

          She doesn’t say my name the same way she used to.

          I would endure the nausea, though--for her. I could live day-to-day, struggling to take a deep breath and keep the bile from rising up in my throat.

          I do, actually.

          It’s not all that bad, though. I get to look at her and be with her and sleep next to her and, although uncomfortable, it is home and I will not complain.

          I know--it’s unhealthy. Me and what I contribute to us, not her. She tries her best to love me and I try my best to pretend she loves me too. This uncomfortableness is comfortable, in a way. We have been  _ we _ for too long and neither of us want to be without it. I don’t think we  _ know _ how to be without it.

          She sits on the couch now, rigid, hands on knees, staring at the a cooking program on the television, but not processing what she sees. I make my way next to her, out of habit, and she closes her eyes.

          I don’t know what to do when she starts crying.

          She speaks to me in a low, shaking voice; apologizing for not being able to love me and my bones begin to ache. The marrow in my fingers seep out and pool at my fingertips. I think I feel them flood onto my nail beds but when I look down, they’re their normal soft pink hue.

          Her knees are still facing the television and she won’t look at me. I think it’s because she can’t, but I can’t tell what she thinks anymore. 

          Her head is in her hands and she apologizes over and over and asks what we’re going to do about us. My hands are dead weight in my lap. I want to touch her, but what’s that going to do? Save us? Fuck.

          My lunch creeps up my throat with every hiccup and sniffle from her.

          I never know what to do when she starts crying.

          Is that why? One miniscule reason, a drop in a sea of why me and her aren’t what we thought we were? Why she can’t love--

          “Dan.” She looks up at me and I stop breathing.

          I think she expects me to say something now. Something to fix this.

          “If you can’t…” My voice is barely audible. I’m too scared that she’ll hear how afraid I am and not leave. “If you can’t love me, I can’t be upset with you. I don’t… I just--don’t… know. Whatever you want to do… please do it. I love you, uh--I mean, only of you want me to. I just want you to be happy, if that’s what you want me to want.” My voice falters and ends in a whisper.

          “It’s not that I don’t want you, though, it’s just that I don’t want… this. Not right now, at least.”

          “I don’t… know what you want me to say, [Y/N]. I mean--I just--tell me what to say, please, I can’t--” I’m begging now and she’s still crying and my hands are still wrung together in my lap.

          She looks at me, clumped-together eyelashes and runny nose and red cheeks and all. I just can’t look back.

          “Dan.” Almost like she used to say it. Almost.

          She never tells me what to say. I guess she doesn't really have to.

          The tightness in my chest is gone. I start to miss it. 


End file.
